God knows what you have been imagining about me, you have not even dreamed what it cost me — to write to you! . . . You thought of nothing but yourself, your own dignity, your peace of mind! . . . But is it likely I' . . . (she squeezed her hands raised to her lips so hard, that the fingers gave a distinct crack). . . . 'As though I made any sort of demands of you, as though explanations were necessary first. . . . "My dear madam, . . . I am, I confess, surprised, . . . if I can be of any use" . . . Ah! I am mad! — I was mistaken in you — in your face! . . . when I saw you the first time. . .! Here . . . you stand. . . . If only one word. What, not one word?'
She ceased. . . . Her face suddenly flushed, and as suddenly took a wrathful and insolent expression. 'Mercy! how idiotic this is!' she cried suddenly, with a shrill laugh. 'How idiotic our meeting is! What a fool I am! . . . and you too. . . . Ugh!'
She gave a contemptuous wave of her hand, as though motioning him out of her road, and passing him, ran quickly out of the boulevard, and vanished.
The gesture of her hand, the insulting laugh, and the last exclamation, at once carried Aratov back to his first frame of mind, and stifled the feeling that had sprung up in his heart when
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